


The Philosopher Poetic

by defractum (nyargles)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Elizabethan Era, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Gen, M/M, Multi, References to Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:11:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/defractum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras just wants to perform in great plays, inspiring his audience with words they will forever remember. Unfortunately, he's saddled with a playwright who just seems to write sarcastic diatribes and dick jokes. Even half his words are made up, for goodness' sake.</p><p>A Shakespeare AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> To take an influence from Shakespeare and his notions on language: hella artistic liberties taken; fucks given, none.
> 
> Much thanks and love to [besanii](http://besanii.tumblr.com) for beta-ing the last chapter, all remaining mistakes and adverbs are mine. XD

Enjolras is a _leading lady_. He can _do this_. All he wants to do is finish off his run as Amelia with grace and give the spectators a performance to remember. Except that in Act II, Montparnasse had enthusiastically swept him off his feet impromptu and now Enjolras has lost one of the stuffers for his dress and no one can find any spares.

“I'll give you one of mine,” says Courfeyrac, “No one cares if the nurse has level breasts, come on.”

Enjolras looks at the front of Courfeyrac's dress. “Yours are three times the size of mine.”

“Swap them both,” says Grantaire from where he's pulling three layers of clothes off in one quick yank over his head for a costume change. Enjolras bites his lip.

When the curtain for Act III rises, the heroine's breasts have magically swollen with the fabric stretched tight across the front, and the nurse's dress sags pathetically. Montparnasse is having trouble keeping a straight face especially in the scene when he is supposed to romantically press his face into Enjolras's bosom; Enjolras is getting catcalls from the audience and he almost takes out his eye when he has to dramatically die from a stab wound.

By the time curtain falls, Enjolras's chest and back hurts, his face is red under the pale stage make-up and he just wants to fling off his heeled shoes and rip these stuffers off. He is, however, a consummate professional, which means that he graciously makes his curtseys and picks up a few of the flowers thrown onto the stage meant for him and doesn't show any sign of weariness until he's limped backstage.

“I don't know how you do it,” Enjolras says, throwing the stuffers at Courfeyrac in their cramped dressing room and nearly knocking them out.

Courfeyrac grimaces and stretches out his back. “Imagine having them all the time.”

Les Amis d'ABC celebrate the end of their run at an establishment called the Corinthe. Well, they're calling it a celebration. The truth is that they're drowning their sorrows since they are all now unemployed. The only one not here is Montparnasse, their leading man, who has gone off to forget his woes by getting himself even further into debt. The Thernadiers had pulled their financial backing after they realised that serious theatre did not pull in as much money as they thought it would and have poured the money into a cheap circus troupe instead, never mind that the papers have all lauded Jehan's script as _emotional genius_.

Enjolras has been steadily not thinking about what he's going to do after this night, because that would mean admitting to himself that the easiest thing to do would be to return home and see if his parents still wanted anything to do with him. He doesn't often drink with the rest of Les Amis, although that may be because they often seem to drink the night before a performance, but tonight seems to warrant alcohol.

It's only early, but Grantaire, Joly and Bossuet are already several pints in when Courfeyrac bursts into the Corinthe with far more enthusiasm than Enjolras would have thought necessary. “I have great news,” he announces, plopping a smartly dressed young man on a chair and stealing Combeferre's pint to give to him. With a significant look, he says, “This is Marius. Marius Pontmercy.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

“He was at our performance tonight, and greatly enjoyed it.”

“It was brilliant,” says Marius, leaning forward and pumping Enjolras's hands. “Your soliloquy moved me to tears. I saw you play Eliza the last season too. It's such an honour to meet you.”

“Thank you,” says Enjolras, finding himself helplessly charmed as Marius waxes poetic about their performances, plural. It's not because he does this for the recognition – he doesn't, not at all – but it's always gratifying to hear that his efforts do actually amount to something, even if it's something as small as making a rich boy think a little broader about the world he lives in.

Marius doesn't fit in with the rest of them; his clothes are obviously a far superior cloth than theirs, he grimaces at the taste of the swill they serve here and Gavroche has managed to pickpocket him four different times and the only reason he still has any valuables at all is because Grantaire is lifting them off Gavroche afterwards. At least, Enjolras hopes that Grantaire is keeping the valuables safe and not habouring thoughts of selling them on. All of these musings, however, fly out of Enjolras's head when Marius eventually opens his mouth and says earnestly: “I wish to sponsor your next play.”

“What?” says Enjolras, because he is not drunk enough for delusions yet.

“Your next play,” says Marius earnestly. “I would sponsor it.”

Courfeyrac shoots them a gleeful look from behind Marius and Enjolras and Combeferre exchange startled looks. “We don't currently have a next project in mind,” says Combeferre smoothly when it becomes clear that Enjolras isn't going to do anything but gape.

Marius beams at them. “Even better! I'm commissioning one for you to put on. Could you do a comedy? I love comedies.”

“That sounds most perfect,” says Combeferre, and it's only Courfeyrac and Enjolras who can hear his bewilderment.

“Let's have us a drink,” says Courfeyrac quickly, before Enjolras can pull him aside and start asking too many questions, “And we can talk dreary business in the morning. Musichetta! A round for everyone!”

~

As was to be expected, Les Amis took the news that they might actually be able to pay rent and feed themselves well, which is the reason that Enjolras wakes up past noon with a pounding head and a mouth that tastes like the sewers. He vaguely remembers Bahorel inviting everyone back to the room he rents with Combeferre after Musichetta threw them out, which explains why his covers are currently wrapped around Grantaire, who's lying across his legs, and Combeferre's bed appears to have six hands.

Even Marius is here, stripped down to just his shirt and trousers and sprawled ungraciously across the ratty armchair, his head pillowed against Montparnasse’s shoulder. Where or when Montparnasse even came and joined them, Enjolras doesn’t remember. His head protests as he pushes himself upright; he groans, and the room collectively groans with him.

It takes over an hour to get everyone up and conscious, by which time three familiar hip flasks have appeared and Joly is explaining hair of the dog to Marius in very small words. Thankfully, Marius seems no worse for the wear and is still eager to sponsor them; he even seems all the more glad that they have included him in their camaraderie as opposed to disgusted by all their personal and off-stage revelries. Enjolras lets out a sigh of relief he didn't know he was holding in.

“What did you do,” says Enjolras, flopping over into Combeferre's bed and Courfeyrac's embrace, barely aware enough to be grateful that his friend is wearing clothes.

“I found us a miracle,” says Courfeyrac, who is clutching a pomade to his nose in a desperate attempt to ward off the hangover. “And he happens to be a lovely enthusiastic young thing willing to give us creative freedom and who has almost bottomless pockets. Also, I may have offered to put him up in my rooms so that he can be an integrated part of the creative process.”

“What,” says Enjolras, because he will forever marvel at the ease with which Courfeyrac makes friends.

Courfeyrac shrugs. Enjolras feels the motion rather than sees it, because he has closed his eyes and is slowly taking comfort in the soothing circles his best friend rubs on his back. “I get the impression that no one takes him very seriously, or listens to him very often.” (For all that he talks, Courfeyrac excels at listening to people.)

“We have a show,” says Enjolras slowly, the realisation finally sinking in.

“We have a backer,” says Combeferre, who rises up out of the depths of his covers with perfect hair and not looking like he's in the slightest bit of pain, damn him. “We do not have a show.”

“We will have a show,” insists Enjolras. “With a backer, we can produce anything. This could be our mark on the world.”

“We cannot produce _anything_ ,” says Combeferre gently, curbing the excess of Enjolras's racing mind. “We can produce a comedy, as per the request of our very generous backer.”

Enjolras pauses. Les Amis have never yet put on a comedy, partially because Jehan has never written one for them, but mostly because Enjolras makes clear his dislike of that lowbrow art form. “A... dramatic comedy?” he suggests, because he is determined to make the absolute best he can of any situation. “It could be our chance to show London that wit is more than slapping rears and jokes about bastard sons.”

~

“I can't write a comedy,” says Jehan awkwardly. He shares an attic room with Grantaire, and everything they own is thrown haphazardly across the floor. Enjolras can tell which side of the room is Grantaire's because empty bottles surround the bed. Combeferre and Enjolras have had to pick their way across to the narrow window where Jehan's managed to cram a writing desk and stool, and Enjolras is standing precariously in approximately three square inches of free space.

“Why not?” asks Enjolras at the same time as Combeferre says soothingly, “Yes you can.”

Jehan smiles indulgently at them both. “It's – different. I don't possess that kind of disposition. A comedy has to be fast-paced, witty, with layers upon layers of puns. I just don't think in that manner.”

“I've seen you write great things,” says Enjolras fiercely as if it offends him that Jehan could think so little of himself.

“What did you think of _Patria_?”

“It was brilliant,” says Enjolras. “Undine's Lament is one of my favourite things you've written.”

“The perfect amount of romantic and tragic,” says Combeferre, smiling encouragingly.

“That was my attempt at comedy.”

Enjolras blinks. “Ah.”

Jehan laughs at them and bows with a flourish. “I'm not offended,” he says. “I know it's not my forte. I've been concentrating on my poetry for a while. I have a few interested patrons now, and it's just fuelling my muse for the romantic. You know I'm still willing to be a player, Enjolras. I just don't think I can write this one.”

Combeferre crosses his arms. “We could always outsource. There's playwrights a farthing out there; some of them have to be half decent.”

“I knew in advance I couldn't possibly produce a comedy as Marius wants,” says Jehan as he reaches across the writing desk to snag a stack of ink-blotted paper. “But I knew of someone... well, what think you of this?”

Enjolras can barely read it. The ink is thick and smeared and the handwriting small and cramped. The paper itself is crumpled and gives off a suspicious smell. Beside him, Combeferre laughs out loud, which makes Enjolras squint and concentrate. He doesn't... _get_ it. It's a case of mistaken identity with girls disguised as boys with a very liberal smatter of lewd jokes that Enjolras doesn't personally care for.

“This is excellent,” says Combeferre. “The style, the double entendres. Just what we need. We can use this?”

“Yes, this play was never going to be shown. I can have roles sorted out and delivered to each of you posthaste.” At Combeferre's decisive nod, Jehan flaps his hands at them. “Now begone! I have copies to scribe.”

They clatter down the creaky stairs. “It's tripe,” says Enjolras the moment they close the door behind Jehan.

“What's tripe?” asks Grantaire, passing them on his way up the stairs. “The bourgeoisie? The state of the monarchy? Or are you slurring your words again, and Jehan is wearing stripes? I would appreciate a fair warning before my eyes are subjected to that.”

“That was _one ti—_ If I held you accountable for the things you say when you're drunk,” says Enjolras, his mouth pinching together as he tries to hold back the rest of that sentence. Unhappily, he realises how easily Grantaire baits him into a temper. “The script Jehan has found for us. It's crass.”

“People will love it,” says Combeferre over him. “It comes at Jehan's recommendation. Did you miss the part where Viola dresses as her twin brother in order to ensure her personal safety after the shipwreck? Think of the statement you could play it as, to demonstrate the dangers of simply _being_ a woman in our society.”

“I suppose so,” says Enjolras grudgingly.

“Twins?” asks Grantaire in a peculiar tone. “That sounds interesting. I'm sure I'll know more once Jehan gives me my role. If you'll excuse me.” He moves past them; Combeferre waves, and carries on down the stairs.

“I still think it's vulgar,” says Enjolras. “There are other forms of wit.”

“It's supposed to be,” says Combeferre. “It's _comedy_. It's easier to make the audience swallow a bitter truth when they have their mouths wide with laughter.”

~

Marius loves it.

Enjolras spends half an hour trying to convince him it's a terrible idea.

Marius gives them three hundred pounds for expenses upfront in _cash_ and spends the next ten minutes kneeling next to Enjolras, who sits with his head between his knees in shock.

~

“—fortunes before you.”

There's a brief silence.

“Grantaire? That's your cue,” says Enjolras, looking around. Behind him, Joly is hastily nudging Grantaire back into consciousness. Grantaire stumbles upright, every inch the fool he is playing and looks dazedly at Enjolras. Joly whispers his line into his ear, but it's too late.

“Honestly, can you not refrain from your cups for just a few days?” Enjolras demands. “We have barely enough time as it is; we cannot waste away the day pandering to your hangover. Have you even _learnt_ your lines?”

Grantaire looks at him, sleep-muddled and hazy, and Enjolras fully expects him to say something derisive about himself or make a comment on how they cannot all compare to Enjolras's perfection. Instead, he delivers his speech, word perfect.

Enjolras forgets, sometimes, how brilliant a player Grantaire is. He locks eyes with Enjolras, and lets loose with his wonder, his curiosity, his confusion, his dawning realisation. Enjolras is half convinced Grantaire is speaking himself, not of his character, because the truth of his words burns through him. When he finishes, Grantaire smiles a crooked smile, staggers back off the stage area and lies back down on the sack he'd been using as a bed.

“I—right. Very good, Grantaire,” says Enjolras.

~

“Where's the rest of the script?” asks Enjolras, one week before their opening performance. They've been preoccupied with all the things that come with getting a show ready – costumes, props, sets, getting posters drawn up and word of mouth passing around about their forthcoming production – that rehearsals have been somewhat of an afterthought at this point. Enjolras trusts everyone to learn their lines and know their cues, and putting it together after that should be relatively easy.

On the other hand, enough of those miscellaneous things have been sorted out now that Enjolras would really like to start in on Act IV.

“Oh yes,” says Jehan thoughtfully, tapping his lip. “I was supposed to tell you. You need to choreograph a sword fight.” Enjolras stares at him in horror. “In Act IV, there's going to be a swordfight that starts off between you and Courfeyrac, then drags in Montparnasse, Combeferre and Bahorel, culminating in a finale when everyone realises that you and Combeferre are twins.”

Enjolras panics. Choreography is not his strong suit; nor, indeed, are sword fights at all. He understands how they're exciting for the audience, but he is the principal female part. He just doesn't have much experience in actually fighting as opposed to standing to the side and swooning. (The small part of him not panicking marvels at the idea of a female role being able to join in on such a thing.) He dashes off immediately.

It's not until the end of the day, when his hip is sore because Bahorel accidentally hit him with one of the practice swords, and his muscles ache from the repetitive lunging and stretching, and his fingers are cramping at the mere thought of holding a sword that he realises that Jehan never did tell him where the rest of the script was.

Enjolras just pauses in front of his rooms, and closes his eyes. His entire body is screaming for a lovely, hot bath. He could just grab some clothes from his room and tumble next door to the washer woman who lets them use some of the water from her huge copper boilers for baths if they don't mind the humid, steaming smell of starch. The next flight of stairs swim in Enjolras's view and he groans as he lugs himself up them to Jehan's rooms.

When Enjolras knocks on the door, there is no answer. He can see the flickering light of a tallow candle in the gap under the door though, so he merely frowns and knocks again, grimacing as his muscles complain. When the third knock goes unanswered too, Enjolras tries the handle. It's unlocked.

The door squeaks open to reveal Grantaire hunched over Jehan’s writing desk. Enjolras halts, then realises that he’s passed out. Enjolras holds his breath as he inches in, expecting the foul smell of too much beer to stain the air, but there’s nothing to suggest that. Enjolras has always found it amazing (and despicable, always despicable) the way Grantaire can function under the influence of alcohol; he could never dream of navigating the set of rickety stairs that lead up here if he were drunk.

Enjolras seats himself on Jehan’s bed to wait for his friend and whiles away the time studying Grantaire’s sleeping form. Enjolras collects people to imprint on his memory, squirrels away small habits to remember so that he can regurgitate them on stage. Grantaire sleeps with his mouth half parted, his head to one side in a way that will surely hurt his neck later. There’s a smudge of ink across Grantaire’s chin and collar, as if he fell asleep whilst ink was still drying and there’s a quill clutched in his hand.

Leaning over, Enjolras goes to pry the quill away from him and reset the cap of the inkwell; they aren’t _so_ well off that they can afford to waste ink or paper and though it’s not his, Enjolras feels that he should be prudent about it. His eyes catch upon some of the words on Grantaire’s paper though, a familiar cadence with... _very_ familiar names. Enjolras slides the paper out from where Grantaire’s nuzzling it.

The blood drains from his face as he takes in the first things written at the top of the page. _Act IV_. Enjolras devours the rest of the page with eyes wide.

“Whoreshit.”

Enjolras looks up to see Grantaire staring at him, the look of someone shocked into wakefulness, hand half outstretched for the paper but not quite daring to snatch it away. “You,” Enjolras says weakly. “You’re our playwright.”


	2. Act II

“Me,” says Grantaire. He smiles, a thin, questioning smile without meeting Enjolras’s eyes and plucks the papers out of his hands, shuffling them together.

“You haven’t finished the script,” says Enjolras dumbly.

Grantaire laughs hollowly. “No.”

Enjolras is reeling from two very different things. The first is that this script was written by Grantaire – he tries, desperately, to recall what he’s said about this script and his stomach lurches because he knows that he’s been vocal about his objections to it – and the second is that the script _isn’t even finished._ “Why didn't you say anything? We're putting this on in less than a week!” Enjolras ticks items off his fingers. “The costumes are half made, the props and backdrops are mostly prepared, the _fight scene is choreographed_.”

Enjolras snatches the paper back and reads through what Grantaire has written so far. “And what is this?” he demands to know. “This is lunacy. The whole thing is thinly veiled flirting or insults, and – and that’s not even a real word!  What were you thinking?!” He's sounding particularly condemning tonight; he knows this is because comedy is just _not his thing_ but there is a week to go before the play opens and all that exists of the ending is reams and reams of puns and cringing embarrassment. That's not Enjolras's idea of a good play. This is not what he wants to be known for.

Grantaire smacks the quill down onto the desk. The nib hits the wood with an awful noise and cracks; ink splatters everywhere. “I was _thinking_ that the lot of you rooted through my private belongings, passed around a personal piece of my writing, expected me to suddenly produce this miracle script and never once, _not_ _once,_ asked me if I wanted to do it.” The most awful part, Enjolras realises, is that he doesn’t even sound angry; he just sounds desperate.

Enjolras is stunned. He had just – it had never occurred to him. “I—,” he says, and finds himself with nothing to say, which makes Grantaire cough out a choked laugh as if he knows exactly what Enjolras is thinking.

“Who knows you wrote this?” Enjolras has to forcibly stop his hand from clenching, lest he crumples the draft of Act IV.

“Jehan knew. Joly and Bossuet knew. Feuilly knew. Bahorel, Combeferre and Courfeyrac worked it out. Montparnasse knows, although I don’t know whether he knew beforehand or found out. I _thought_ you knew. _Marius_ knows.”

“So literally everyone knew apart from me. I – You thought I knew. Do you think so little of me? I wouldn’t have said – those things I did if I had known it was about you.”

Grantaire pries the script out of Enjolras’s grip and smoothes the papers down onto the desk. “Yes, you would,” he says not unkindly. “You just did.”

Enjolras passes his hand over his face. Sometimes, he cannot control the things he says at the height of his passion. It works well for him; he is an orator like no other. But then things like this happen. He wants to protest, tell Grantaire that he was reacting in shock; he wants to shake Grantaire and tell him to stop writing such _drivel_. He says nothing.

“You could have said no,” Enjolras says finally. In the wan light of the candle, he can see the rough stubble unevenly smattered across Grantaire's jaw, the tension around eyes that hold only laughter lines, the deep sunken shadows of his eyes. He must have been writing through the night to be able to attend rehearsals by day and still provide them with new lines. He reaches out to brush the dark hair out of Grantaire's way, and Grantaire flinches from his touch, fiddling instead with a locket around his neck.

“I wasn't going to let you go hungry this month, Apollo,” says Grantaire softly, not meeting his eyes.

~

The next morning, neither Jehan nor Grantaire are present. Enjolras jiggles his leg impatiently as he works on the dress he’s repurposing from _Dido_ , until Montparnasse bites off his needle, and says, “Let’s do the swordfight again. You’re still like a babe bearing arms.”

Enjolras has never been so relieved to have a decision taken out of his hands that he doesn’t even bristle at the insult.

Two hours later, when Enjolras’s shoulder is starting to hurt and Feuilly has somehow managed to completely finish sewing Grantaire’s ridiculous mustard outfit, Jehan and Grantaire burst into the rooms, panting and sweat dripping off them, clutching stacks of paper. “Act IV,” says Jehan, passing the roles out. “Sorry – scribing always takes longer than anticipated.”

“Finally!” Enjolras lets out an explosive breath, and leafs through his copy. It’s not as bad as he feared; it looks like Grantaire’s changed some things since he left and guilt winds its way through Enjolras’s stomach at the idea of Grantaire having to rewrite parts. He doesn’t even have that many lines to learn, it seems, although Combeferre’s got his work cut out for him.

“We’ll take an early lunch,” Enjolras says, wiping sweat from his neck. “Learn your parts over lunch, we’ll start on Act IV in the afternoon.”

Enjolras reads very carefully through Grantaire’s part, where Malvolio tells of how he has been wronged, and looks up to see Grantaire swaying where he stands, wolfing down a hunk of bread and cheese. “You should sit down.”

Grantaire smiles wanly at him. “I cannot. If I sit, I won’t be getting back up before I’ve snored away a good half day.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say to that. “It’s, er. It’s not bad,” he says, indicating his script.

“You’re only saying that because there’s less humour in this act,” says Grantaire. “Too tired to think of puns.”

Enjolras nods awkwardly; he seems to be dreadful at talking to Grantaire at all. “Grantaire, it’s magnificent,” says Marius from across the room, shattering whatever tension had been seeping in between them. He bounds toward them and sweeps Grantaire up in a hug as Enjolras stares. Had that been the correct response?

~

“I'm leaving,” says Montparnasse two days later.

Enjolras jerks, and yanks apart the seam he's been sewing for his costume. “ _What_.”

“The Thernadiers offered me a place in their troupe,” says Montparnasse, shifting from foot to foot, maybe because Enjolras is rapidly looking like he's about to punch him and he wants a head start on escaping. “And I may owe them a favour or two in any case.”

“You're in debt to them,” says Courfeyrac shrewdly as Enjolras fumes. “And they own you until they are paid off.”

Montparnasse shrugs. “It is as you say. ‘Least I told you in person. Good luck.”

Enjolras watches in stunned rage as Montparnasse picks up a bag – he must have come by last night and packed already, the _bastard_ – and saunters out.

“What do we _do_?” Jehan’s shocked eyes snap him back to the present as they survey the things Montparnasse left behind – a half-finished costume, a huge fucking gaping leading man role. They're too small of a company to have full understudies and any spare time they’ve had has been poured into costumes and props; no one’s had the time to learn all the covering roles they would have normally for this production.

Enjolras looks around at them all. “Who knows Montparnasse's lines?” He raises a hand; he's been playing opposite him all this time. So does Grantaire, obviously, and Bahorel.

“Grantaire can do it,” says Bahorel. “No one else can do my part in the fight.”

“Of course _Grantaire_ can't do it,” snaps Enjolras, a headache brewing as he tries to mentally juggle the parts. It's only after a very long silence that Enjolras realises that everyone is studiously not looking at him. “I—”

“It's all right,” says Grantaire, looking up at him from under long, thick lashes to give him a twisted smile. “I'm not leading man material anyway.”

“ _No_. I meant that Grantaire cannot possibly be expected to be in rehearsals for almost every single scene and learn the swordfight choreography _and_ finish writing the script,” snaps Enjolras. “It's too much work, look at him, we're running him ragged. I don't think he's _slept_ since Tuesday.”

There's another silence, one of awe this time, before Combeferre steps in. “Alright, so Grantaire doesn't need the extra pressure. That leaves Enjolras to fill in as Duke Orsino. Who knows Enjolras's lines?”

“I do.” The voice that pipes up is one of the stagehands. He's young, with soft features like Enjolras does, perfect for the female twin.

“Ep?” says Grantaire and gives him a strange look.

Enjolras glances between the two of them. It's almost noon, they haven't managed to work on anything today and they're going to have to rehash significant parts of things they had already got down. “Can you act?” He asks Ep, who nods, firmly. “Can you do the fight sequence?” He nods again. “Let's give you a chance. Pick your favourite scene, do it opposite me, we'll see if it works. If it doesn't, we'll deal with it later.”

For the first time in his life, Enjolras is leading man instead of leading lady. It takes him a while to remember to affect the different mannerisms on stage but Ep is actually a good actor to work opposite and wasn’t lying about knowing the lines and seems to have a thorough grasp of playing a woman, even if he is playing a woman pretending to be a man.

After the rehearsal, Enjolras cuts the long, blond hair he grew out to avoid the scratchy wigs, and Grantaire does a double take when he walks back in after lunch.

“Is it bad?” Enjolras asks, feeling rather bared. He had had to make do with the sliver of mirror they use to shave by, and it's been so very long since he has had short hair.

“Not at all.” Grantaire looks like he's swallowed a lemon whole. Enjolras tousles his hair self-consciously and Grantaire makes an odd gurgling noise. “Let me even it out for you.”

Grantaire’s fingers in his hair are gentle. Enjolras watches his progress using the mirror, occasionally directing him to particular tufts of hair. “I'm going to have to stop shaving or no one will realise I'm playing a man this time.”

“Or they’ll think you’re another female part pretending to be a man,” says Grantaire. Enjolras tilts the mirror up a little more, and watches Grantaire. He looks even more tired than before, which is not surprising, and he hasn’t shaved in a few days, but he doesn’t smell of wine or beer, and his hands are steady as they shape the back of Enjolras’s head.

Grantaire leans forward (his shirt gapes; Enjolras is definitely not looking) and his locket swings out, hitting Enjolras on the back of the head. “Sorry,” he says hastily, stuffing it back in.

“Is that for your lover?” Enjolras asks, for lack of anything else to ask. He isn’t actually aware if Grantaire has a lover at present but he talks of bedding someone every so often.

“Well.” Grantaire’s smile pulls upwards self-deprecatingly. “Someone I admire, in any case.”

“Sounds like it could be me,” says Enjolras dryly, because only a blind man would miss the way Grantaire acts towards him, and even then for only as long as it took for Grantaire to open his mouth.

Grantaire laughs, and Enjolras finds himself grinning back.

“How’s Act V coming along?”

“It’s getting there. It’ll be finished tomorrow,” says Grantaire and Enjolras sees him bracing as if for an attack.

“You should sleep after that,” says Enjolras, being very careful to not sound accusatory or patronising. He hopes it manages to come off light-heartedly.

Grantaire snorts, and tugs on a remaining curl. “I note you didn’t tell me that I ought to sleep tonight _before_ I’ve finished.” He catches Enjolras looking in the mirror, and Enjolras tips it away quickly. He curses the fact that Grantaire is looking right at the exposed back of his neck where he tends to blush.

“That’s probably short enough,” says Enjolras hastily, because it feels strangely intimate to have someone touch his scalp again.

Grantaire steps back. “As you say.”

Enjolras stands, and they both brush blond hair off themselves. The rags he had laid down on the floor are covered with long blond hair and Grantaire bundles it up efficiently and throws it all into the midden heap. He had never thought himself sentimental but it feels like a farewell of sorts. He wonders briefly if this had been what Viola had felt when needs had dictated that she disguise herself as a man, and is halfway through working out how to incorporate it into his performance when he remembers that it’s not his part anymore.

~

First thing in the morning, Enjolras walks in on Grantaire and Ep having an argument. He is not mentally awake enough to deal with this. “Erm,” he says, hand still on the doorknob of one of the rehearsal rooms. (There are a lot of advantages to having a wealthy patron, and one of them is _multiple rehearsal rooms_.)

The two of them break apart, Ep with a furious flush across his face. He thrusts a finger in Grantaire’s face, and stalks out with a curt nod to Enjolras. Grantaire rises slowly, and exhales a long breath. He looks tired. Enjolras can’t help but notice that every time he seems Grantaire now, and he’s starting to look more and more like the time a couple of years ago when he lost his way in his cups and could not pull himself out.

“What was that? Will this affect the play?” asks Enjolras, and remembers belatedly that his first question ought to have been if Grantaire was all right.

“Nothing,” says Grantaire. “We have these arguments at least once a month.”

“You know each other,” says Enjolras, because sometimes he really is completely blind to these things. “I mean – well.”

“Since childhood,” says Grantaire, yawning.

“You should rest,” says Enjolras. “The others won’t be arriving for some time yet.” Enjolras is always the first to get here – it hadn’t even occurred to him that the rehearsal room might contain other people in when he had arrived.

Grantaire looks like he’s sorely tempted to take Enjolras up on that offer.

“I’ll wake you when you’re needed,” says Enjolras, taking Grantaire’s arm and leading him to the side. “You know me. You know I will.” That surprises Grantaire into a laugh as he stumbles along after Enjolras to an armchair where he curls up. Enjolras drapes his coat over him and Grantaire sleepily mumbles a thanks as he sinks straight into sleep.

~

“We’re not waking Grantaire today,” says Enjolras when everyone else arrives. He’s relocated them to another room. ( _Thank you, Marius, for your generosity.)_ “We’re just going to do all the scenes without Malvolio. We all know he knows his lines anyway.”

Combeferre tilts his head at Enjolras enquiringly, and Enjolras knows it’s approval when he smiles.

~

When they scatter for lunch, Enjolras heads back to Grantaire’s room to retrieve his coin purse. Grantaire is still completely unconscious, head lolling to one side. Enjolras lightly eases it back so that he won’t have to deal with a crippling crick in the neck when he awakens. As he moves Grantaire, he sees that the locket from Grantaire’s neck has sprung its clasp, revealing a lock of blond hair that obscures a portrait.

Enjolras reaches out, because he has curiosity like any other man, and Grantaire moves in his sleep, mumbling to himself. Enjolras’s heart skips a beat, and he flees instead.

Grantaire wakes up around mid-afternoon, and Enjolras knows it because halfway through Courfeyrac’s speech, they hear: “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK.”

There are the sounds of Grantaire crashing through the corridor, and Joly opens the door hastily. “R! In here!”

Grantaire staggers in, wild-eyed. “What time is it?”

“Almost four, why?”

“Enjolras!”

Enjolras waves him in. “You’re interrupting a scene.” Grantaire is glaring furiously at him but he ignores that and motions for Courfeyrac to carry on. One the rehearsal is back under way, he turns to Grantaire. “You needed the rest,” he says in a low voice, hopefully placatingly.

“You said you’d wake me if you needed me,” growls Grantaire, trying to tame his wild hair and pulling his shirt straight.

“Well, it looks like we didn’t need you after all,” says Enjolras, trying to make a joke out of it and he knows it falls flat when he sees the look of hurt flare. Grantaire sits opposite him for a moment, breathing heavily, and then pulls himself to his feet and lurches away before Enjolras can stop him.


	3. Act III

“I’m sorry,” says Enjolras, shoulders hunched as he perches on the edge of the bed. The words feel foreign in his mouth, and he admits that he is not one for apologising frequently.

“I know that,” says Combeferre. “You need to say it to him, not to me. Oh, Enjolras.” He smoothes back Enjolras’s hair as if he were his mother, though in truth Enjolras’s mother has never done such things.

“Why do I always do this?” asks Enjolras of no one in particular, though Combeferre’s fingers through his hair are doing their part in relaxing him. “Get me on the stage and I am an orator, a player, able to convince an audience a thousand strong to rise before me. And yet, this. Always, _this_.”

Combeferre has no answer that will satisfy Enjolras; he already knows this. “Go apologise to him,” he says. “Before you turn in for the night. Or it will nag at you all night, and him too.” From Cuurfeyrac’s rooms, adjacent to theirs, they hear Marius’s peals of laughter, and Enjolras sighs. Courfeyrac has always known what to say to a friend.

“So be it. I’m going.” Enjolras wraps himself up in a blanket – he’s already changed into his night clothes but it’s only one floor up. He’ll risk running into the random other people who have rented rooms in the lodging house and scurries up before the cold seeps into his bones.

It is Jehan who answers their door, quill in hand and a glazed look in his eyes that signify that he is all at once far away in the stars and buried deep between the lines of his paper.

“Is Grantaire in?”

Jehan blinks twice, as if to ground himself in the dreariness of reality. “Enjolras. No, I’m afraid that he’s out. I suppose he’ll be home soon though. Are you here for the final scenes? They’re finished and copied, come in.”

“No, I–” Enjolras is speaking to an empty door already though, so he steps in and picks his way across the room to Jehan. “I wanted to apologise to Grantaire.”

“Whatever for?” Jehan rummages through their desk – and now Enjolras realises that it is _their_ desk and not just Jehan’s, because they evidently share it – and hands him some papers.

Enjolras itches to look at them, to know how the play is resolved, but something about Jehan’s words drags his attention away. “The way I – the things I said at rehearsal today.”

“Oh that,” says Jehan airily, taking up his quill again and jotting some words down as if they might escape him forever if he doesn’t do it right that moment. “He’s surely forgiven you for that. It’s not like you don’t say those things all the time, Enjolras.”

“ _What_?” Enjolras stares at the back of Jehan’s head and there is a long pause before he realises that Jehan has forgotten about him already. “Jehan,” he says, reaching out of give him a tap on the shoulder when he doesn’t respond.

Jehan jolts. “Hmm? Oh, Grantaire will be back soon. You’re welcome to wait for him,” mumbles Jehan and Enjolras decides not to press the issue and takes the time to think about it instead. That’s twice now Enjolras has been told that he insults Grantaire often and to his embarrassment, he can barely remember any of these incidents. There’s only a vague memory of chastising Grantaire when he’s hungover or, worse, still drunk during rehearsals but Enjolras refuses to believe that he would be in the wrong for that: he would scold anyone for being hungover during a rehearsal, he is sure.

There’s a rattle at the door just then, and it is indeed Grantaire returning, lumbering with the loose easy steps that means that he’s had a few drinks, but only a few. “Enjolras. What a pleasure to see you on my bed. And clad only in your nightclothes!” He snatches his hat off his head and sweeps a low bow, the sort they use at the certain call, and it manages to be both deferential and mocking at the same time.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras flushes, and pulls his blanket tighter around himself. “I was getting ready for bed.”

“When you had a sudden and desperate desire to see _me_?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

“To apologise to you.” Enjolras remembers now, the reason he can’t seem to find his words around Grantaire. Grantaire wields his words to create a defence around himself, and seems to think that the best defence is a good offence. He’s on the attack before Enjolras has even thought to engage him in conversation, and mustn’t that be _exhausting_ for him.

Grantaire’s face has frozen comically and Enjolras presses his advantage. “Grantaire, I want to apologise to you, for what I said earlier. That was my attempt at a joke. I didn’t mean it and I hope you don’t think that way about you. You’re a valued member of Les Amis.” It doesn’t work. Enjolras knows a good speech when he hears one, and that wasn’t one. The words, however sincere, sound wooden out of his mouth. Enjolras sighs. “Grantaire, _please_.”

“It seems you take to humour as much as Jehan does,” says Grantaire eventually, stepping forward with a crooked grin. Grantaire sits down beside him, the bed sinking under their combined weight. “I can’t believe you came up just to say that.”

Enjolras bristles indignantly. “There was nothing ‘just’ about that.” His words fails him after that as Grantaire reaches up and pushes back a tuft of hair from Enjolras’s face. His face warms where Grantaire’s knuckles brush past and he feels simultaneously relieved that Grantaire seems to believe him and unbelievably patronised that Grantaire considers an apology such outlandish behaviour from him.

“Goodnight, Enjolras. Consider yourself forgiven.”

“Goodnight, Grantaire.” Enjolras reaches out and gives him a quick squeeze on the knee, the kind he might give Courfeyrac to show his support, and shuffles out of the rooms. “Goodnight, Jehan,” he calls even though he knows better than to expect a response when Jehan is lost in another world.

~

“I have a sponsor,” announces Jehan, two days before opening night.  His eyes are alight with fire and a perfumed calling card is cradled tightly in his hands as if it were a delicate butterfly. “I have met the most wonderful creature, and she wishes to sponsor my poetry.”

“Are you leaving us?”

The words spill out of Enjolras’s mouth before he can stop them, and Combeferre says smoothly over him, “Congratulations, my friend. That’s great news!” Les Amis huddle excitedly around Jehan as Enjolras awkwardly clasps his shoulder, and he knows Jehan understands that he is happy for him. Sometimes, the words come before he thinks.

“I already ate,” says Jehan, pushing away the plate that Courfeyrac offers. “I was reciting some of my poetry in the park just as I walked and fed the squirrels and a gentlewoman stopped me to ask who the poet was. One thing led to another and now I have a sponsor! I’m invited – we are all invited, in fact, the very moment I mentioned Les Amis acting troupe – to a party she is holding tomorrow to give a recitation.”

“That’s great,” says Enjolras, and everyone looks at him because they had most likely anticipated his first reaction to be about the timing of such a party. Enjolras is getting better at socially acceptable responses recently, he thinks.

And then, because it really _is_ an issue, he adds, “You say that her party is tomorrow?” Tomorrow is the day before opening. They have dress rehearsals and a thousand little things they have to fix and touch up, things that they haven’t even thought of yet but will inevitably rear their head once they get the dress rehearsal under way.

Jehan grimaces. “I know, I know, and I said I wouldn’t abandon you for the poetry, Enjolras. It’s an evening affair, I’m fairly sure we have time to make it after rehearsals. You can decline the invitation, of course, but there will be a great many influential people there and we shall have the chance of a lifetime to promote opening night.”

“Of course we shall,” says Enjolras and a smile escapes him. He ought to have known that Jehan would have thought this through.

~

Dress rehearsal is an unmitigated disaster. Combeferre trips over Courfeyrac and there’s a deafening _riiiip_ noise as his breeches split. Enjolras goes to lie down on Orsino’s couch and one of the legs falls off, tipping him over backwards. Everyone seems to be forgetting lines left, right and centre, driving Enjolras to the point where he forgets an entire speech. The final straw is when one of the stagehands opens the wrong trapdoor, sending Jehan screaming down four feet in an enormous puff of dress skirts and hair.

“I’m not supposed to _actually_ break a leg,” says Jehan as he claws his way back onto the stage as Grantaire, Bossuet and Joly piss themselves laughing, after having got over the sheer _terror_ that overcame them all for a moment.

Enjolras pulls at his hair, a habit of his when he’s getting stressed, and panics. It’s not there. “My _hair_ ,” he shrieks, tugging at it, and everyone looks around.

“Enjolras,” says Combeferre, giving him a pitying look.

Oh... of course. He’d cut it a week ago. He’d forgotten. Enjolras stares around at them all, chest heaving, and breaks down into hysterical laughter.

Marius looks terrified by the time they’re finishing up. “Don’t worry, dress rehearsal is supposed to go terribly,” says Courfeyrac cheerfully. “It’s a good omen.”

“Superstition and codswallop,” says Enjolras for the sake of form more than anything else, because everyone remembers the one time dress rehearsal ran perfectly, causing Enjolras to have a minor break-down.

“Ye gods, look at the time!” says Courfeyrac suddenly. Everyone winces. They’d forgotten, as always, how much over time dress rehearsals always run, and now there’s no time for them to run back to their rooms and clean up.

“We’ll go in costume.” Jehan pulls his wig back on and fastens it into place as Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him. “It’ll be a great talking point, everyone’s sure to remember us then. Everyone touch up your make-up, and we’ll go in full costume.”

“I highly doubt it’s _that_ kind of party,” says Combeferre dubiously. “You know how the nobility can be… Present company excepted, of course.”

Jehan rolls his eyes, making no comment about the fact that aside from Marius, at least three of the rest of them also come from noble families. “I think she’ll be fine with it. At the very least, we’ll be remembered as a scandal.”

“You’re trying to get her to sponsor you, Jehan, not blacklist you from every noble in the city.”

Jehan smiles, and promptly ignores him. “Come on, I’ve decided. We’re going in costume.”

And so they do.

There is a moment, when the entire troupe is assembled in front of the exquisite mansion, when Enjolras looks at Grantaire’s mustard garters and wonders if this was an entirely sensible idea, but it’s far too late now other guests have seen them and are speculating.

“Welcome, welcome!” A vision of cream lace descends upon them as a servant opens the door. “I’ve been waiting for your arrival for simply ages.”

“I’m so sorry,” starts Jehan, dropping into a low bow despite the dress he has on but he’s pulled upright by a pale, dainty hand.

“No, not at all! I’m just a trifle over-excited for your performance today, Master Jehan.”

“Shall I do the honour of the introductions? If I may, this is the Lady Fauchelevant.”

“Charmed,” says Lady Fauchelevant, cheeks dimpling as she smiles. “But please, Lady Cosette is fine. Lady Fauchelevant sounds like an awful dumpling of a woman.”

“Milady, this is our gracious sponsor, Lord Marius Pontmercy.” Marius steps forward and sweeps a bow with the perfect amount of decorum; Lady Cosette’s face pinks as he kisses her hand, and Enjolras is quite sure that Marius would not have let go of it if Jehan had not introduced him next. “Our leading man, Master Enjolras.” Jehan points them out in turn, and they each muster a bow, though Enjolras notes that Jehan doesn’t introduce him by his peerage title. It’s for the best, he supposes.

“My apologies, my Lady, for our bizarre attire. Jehan mentioned that you had an interest in our humble play, and we thought it would, ah, amuse the guests,” says Enjolras, feeling that it would be best to at least attempt an explanation.

“Twas an excellent idea,” she enthuses. Enjolras’s bow, much like Marius’s, comes to him after years of deportment lessons as a child and he is suddenly reminded that there might well be nobility here that he actually knows. He smoothes out his face as Jehan introduces the rest of them and tries to imagine his mother’s face if she saw him here, today.

“Master Jehan, there are several people you simply _must_ meet before we have your performance, so I shall be the creature of impudence and part you from your friends. Not to worry: I suspect that they will be swarmed with attention the moment I step away.” Jehan waves at them as he departs on Lady Cosette’s arm as she drags him off, their skirts sweeping the floor in time.

“Cheerful thing, isn’t she?” says Bossuet, bemused. “I’ve never been introduced to a _lady_ before.”

“Don’t let Musichetta hear you say that,” says Joly, slapping him with his gloves.

“I’m in love,” says Marius with a dreamy sigh.

“Oh, do you know Lady Cosette?” asks Courfeyrac.

Marius shakes his head. “No, but I’m in love.”

~

Grantaire’s mustard garters attract _almost_ as much attention as Courfeyrac’s dress. Enjolras mentally thanks Jehan for his idea as multitudes of curious young nobles wander up to them to enquire as the older ones linger by the walls and whisper about them and glean their information from eavesdropping on the younger generation.

Courfeyrac nearly causes a riot when he talks Marius into taking him onto the dancefloor for a galliard and they enthusiastically tromp their way across the hall as the nobles stop to stare and whisper. Courfeyrac doesn’t care – he flounces his skirts, and then hands Marius off right into Lady Cosette’s arms in time for the beginning strains of a lavolta.

“Subtle,” says Enjolras as Courfeyrac fans himself and cackles.

“Oh, the silly boy would never dare to ask her for a dance himself, _someone_ had to do something about it,” Courfeyrac says carelessly, watching with glee as Marius blushes and asks Lady Cosette for this dance.

“It’s a shame _you’re_ not in skirts,” says Grantaire from behind him; Enjolras starts. “Or I would have asked you for a pavane or two.”

“Not lavolta?” asks Enjolras, looking pointedly at Lady Cosette, laughing as Marius lifts her.

Grantaire smiles, not quite meeting his eyes. “As if you would permit me such an intimate dance.”

There doesn’t seem to be anything for Enjolras to say to that, and so he keeps his mouth shut lest he open it and say exactly the wrong thing, as he is prone to doing. Behind Grantaire, Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t know the woman’s part for a pavane,” says Enjolras suddenly, and Courfeyrac’s eyebrow rises so spectacularly that it disappears into his hair. “But I remember the alamand from when we performed _The Knight’s Tragedy_.”

Grantaire stares at him. Enjolras remembers how he had promised himself literally ten seconds ago that he would not open his mouth and say something foolish and vaguely wonders where his resolution went. His heart thumps in his chest and he’s on the verge of telling Grantaire to forget it all when Grantaire says, with amusement, “Well, who am I to say no?”

By the time an alamand comes up, Enjolras is bursting with tension and half-wishing that he hadn’t said anything. Grantaire bows low to him with his usual self-deprecating grin. Enjolras bows back, because a curtsey looks ridiculous when he’s not wearing a dress and they join the lines of dancers, everyone giving them alarmed looks when Enjolras slips in between the trains of the ladies. It is somewhat amusing for Enjolras; before he had cut his hair, he had garnered more double takes when he joined in the men’s side.

They start the steps in time, swept along the rhythm with everyone else. Grantaire’s hand envelopes his and Enjolras concentrates on remembering the steps instead of the stare on Grantaire’s face. Unfortunately, he can’t keep up that pretense for long because there are only so many steps to recall, and he feels the gentle pressure of Grantaire’s fingers along his back, steadying him when he spins.

They’re too far away to exchange much conversation without the other dancers overhearing, and so they stay completely silent right up until the closing chords. “Such a serious look,” says Grantaire with a lopsided smile, and Enjolras flushes when he realises how close they are.

“It’s a serious dance,” says Enjolras as if his heart isn’t beating far faster than the amount of exertion for the alamand warranted.

Grantaire opens his mouth, but before he can say anything else, Lady Cosette attracts the attention of the room. “It is my delight to present the highlight of this evening’s entertainment, Master Jehan Prouvaire,” she says simply and lets Jehan take the stage, and Enjolras likes her. She’s not overly ostentatious and she is downright casual for a noble. It seems fitting that he isn’t seeing any of the crowd he grew up with here; they don’t seem to be the sort of company that Lady Cosette frequents.

Jehan sweeps a curtsey as the audience settles in and chattering dims to a murmur. Enjolras has never quite – _appreciated_ poetry. He has studied it, of course, reams and reams of it, and performed no small amount in various plays, but it’s not his preferred medium and he know that apparently makes him an uncultured swine. Jehan’s poetry is beautiful and heartbreakingly morbid and Enjolras misses all the right places to _ooh_ and _ahh_ and nod thoughtfully. Grantaire, he notes, is listening avidly.

By the end, several ladies have raised kerchiefs to their eyes and Grantaire lets out an explosive breath. “Jehan never does fail to be exquisite.”

Enjolras makes a noncommittal noise and Grantaire finally looks over. “It’s very morbid?” He tries.

Grantaire lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. “Yes, it’s supposed to be. Did it not make you question your mortality, your very existence?”

“Of course it did,” says Enjolras because he’s not a _complete_ heathen, “but I do that every so often anyway.” That startles Grantaire into a laugh. “I never thought you to be quite such an aficionado for poetry. You never struck me as the sort.”

“Uneducated?”

Enjolras splutters. “ _No_. I know you attended school, Grantaire. I meant... Oftentimes, those who enjoy poetry are a little pretentious. You are not. It’s interesting, that’s all. How was that? Not as insulting as you had hoped?”

Grantaire pats Enjolras’s hand, and it is with a lurch that Enjolras realises he had never let go of it after the dance. “When you speak, I barely notice whether it is an insult at all,” he says, lying baldly because Enjolras _knows_ he feels it when Enjolras’s words sting.

“Why do you always do that, Grantaire?” asks Enjolras, shaking his head in wonder. “What is it about _me_ that makes you so glib?”

“I am always glib.”

Enjolras pulls his hand free of Grantaire’s and crosses his arms, more because he can’t seem to fuddle his way through this whilst Grantaire’s strong fingers are entwined in his. “You would not have said what you did just now to Combeferre, I wager.”

Grantaire shrugs. “And you could have won that wager if you had laid anything on it. What would you like to hear? Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

“No, please don’t,” says Enjolras, making a pained face.

“I – what.” Grantaire looks at him, wide-eyed, and then laughs. “No, Enjolras, it was a reference to a poem – never mind. I should have known better given your thoughts on poetry.”

Enjolras feels guilty about that one: he’s been to every recital that Jehan has given, even the ones where Les Amis were the only audience, and he cannot for the life of him remember this poem.

He asks Jehan about it later, privately, because he know Jehan won’t take offence that Enjolras has forgotten one of his poems. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,” he says, and Jehan’s mouth drops open in an ‘o’ of surprise. “What’s the next line?”

“Thou art more lovely and more temperate,” says Jehan.

“What does it mean?”

Jehan’s mouth tips into a frown, and really, Enjolras had preferred the surprise. “What do you mean, ‘what does it mean’? It means that you are more lovely and temperate than a summer’s day. Enjolras, have you lost your command over the English language entirely?”

“Grantaire said it to me. He expected me to know the next line for some reason and I didn’t, sorry. I don’t have your poems memorised.”

“It’s not _mine_ ,” says Jehan, confused. “It’s one of Grantaire’s.”

Enjolras blinks.

“You’ve _never_ heard it before?” presses Jehan.

“I didn’t know Grantaire wrote poetry,” he says, trying frantically to work out if he said anything insulting to Grantaire about poets in that last conversation.

Jehan’s face of disbelief is spectacular. “Grantaire is a _highly respected_ poet, Enjolras. He has people practically begging him for commissions and recitals.”

“ _What_.”

“You _must_ know,” says Jehan as if this was information that Enjolras might have known but momentarily forgotten or something. “He’s written sonnets upon _sonnets_ about – well, about love.”

“Has he just,” says Enjolras faintly, and excuses himself. He’s aware that Jehan is staring after him like Enjolras just decided to parade around the hall with his smallclothes on his head, and heads toward Combeferre. Combeferre will be able to make sense out of all this.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Enjolras says desperately.

“Thou art more lovely and more temperate,” says Combeferre immediately.

Enjolras swears. “Damnation.” Combeferre tilts his head and waits for Enjolras to give an explanation in his own time. “Do you know how the rest of it goes?”

“Of course,” says Combeferre, his eyes taking on a faraway gaze as he thinks.

“Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,   
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:   
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,   
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,   
And every fair from fair sometime declines,   
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed:   
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,   
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,   
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,   
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,   
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,   
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”

“Does _everyone_ know this poem?”

Combeferre shrugs. “Well, I doubt it. But it was very popular a while back.”

“It’s about me, isn’t it?”

“Enjolras, practically all of Grantaire’s poems are about you.”

Enjolras is going to regret asking this, but: “How many are there?”

“Almost a hundred, I should think by now.”

“What,” croaks Enjolras, wondering how all of this had escaped his notice. He could see himself missing a poetry reading or two, or not being in the know that Grantaire had published a slim volume of verse but Grantaire is a _renowned poet_ and there are _almost a hundred poems_ about him: that’s just ridiculous.

“Enjolras, are you all right?”

“I didn’t know,” he says numbly. “I didn’t know he felt that way.”

“Well, he takes every opportunity to tell you of it,” says Combeferre as he takes Enjolras by the arm and steers him gently into a quiet corner.

“I always thought he was joking.” It was no wonder then, that the others had thought him cruel when he tried to joke back.

Combeferre sighs. “Oh, Enjolras.” He’s getting a lot of that lately. “Grantaire’s out in the garden. Go talk to him.”


	4. Act IV

“I thought you had a lover.” Enjolras had started out at a brisk walk, which had descended into a trot and then a full out run as he navigated the huge gardens with their winding paths in the dark to try and find Grantaire. The words tumble out the moment he sees Grantaire turn, alarmed at the sight of him. The wind whisk the words from his mouth and Enjolras skids to a halt in front of Grantaire, panting.

“What?”

“I thought you had a lover,” Enjolras repeats, quieter this time. Grantaire’s eyebrows dip together in confusion. “I didn’t know that you – loved me. I saw your locket, with the hair – I assumed you had a lover.”

Grantaire stares for a very long time, and then closes his eyes as if it pains him to be in the presence of such stupidity. “It’s your hair, you clotpole.”

It’s Enjolras’s turn to stare, and eventually Grantaire dips his hand into his collar and pulls the locket out. The clasp comes undone at barely a touch, and Grantaire takes the tuft of hair in his fingers to show Enjolras the portrait. It’s a _very_ good profile of Enjolras, with his hair long and tied loosely over one shoulder. “Where did you get this?” he asks in awe.

“I painted it.” Grantaire fiddles with it, tucking the hair back in and closing it. “You must think me a terrible lech.”

“No!” Enjolras looks up earnestly at Grantaire because he doesn’t want any more misunderstandings between them. It’s only then that he realises how close they’ve got with Enjolras leaning in to see the locket. “I’m not – it’s very – I’m flattered, Grantaire.” Grantaire’s eyes are guarded in the evening darkness and it feels like the right moment for Enjolras to lean in until their noses brush. He wets his lips; he can feel Grantaire’s breath warm upon his face.

“Enjolras, no,” says Grantaire softly. He pulls back, and the moment is broken. “Not if you don’t mean it. I don’t want it like this.”

“But I–”

“Enjolras. A bare half hour ago, you thought I was lying with someone else.”

Enjolras exhales. “I understand,” he says, and he thinks he actually really does this time. He swallows. He cannot honestly tell Grantaire that he’s sure about this, that he’s thought about this. In truth, he’s never thought very much of Grantaire before at all, and perhaps that is the problem. “Could you give me some time to think about this?”

Grantaire looks at him with a small smile. “I hope you would realise by now that I would give you most anything you wished.” He steps forward and presses a light kiss to Enjolras’s cheek. “Good night, Enjolras.” He heads back toward the house, leaving Enjolras with his thoughts in the dark.

~

When Enjolras awakens the next day, his stomach is a tangle of knots. There are a thousand little thoughts to himself, notes about actions he doesn’t want to forget, words he needs to tell the stagehands and the other Amis, minute adjustments to the backdrops and props. That’s a normal part of the process by now though, and there’s certain to be a few things he’ll forget between now and this afternoon, even if he does try his best to scribble lists.

Beside him, Combeferre is doing much the similar thing, and nudges his bowl of porridge toward Enjolras, who steals his spoon and eats a few spoonfuls. They share their breakfast like this, appeasing their internal perfectionists and taking advantage of a little peace and quiet while they can.

Backstage is a flurry of last minute preparations, even if there are a few hours to go until the show starts yet and Enjolras doesn’t get much of a chance to think about his recent break-through in understanding Grantaire.

“I invited Lady Cosette and her father to come and see the backstage areas,” says Marius as they finish up a harried working lunch. “They should arrive perhaps a half hour before the performance starts.”

Enjolras has come to appreciate Marius’s generosity in the last month, and the way he is so very ignorant of all things practical is tempered very much by his eagerness to learn and his cheerful admission that he defers to their knowledge. However, there are some things that Marius just doesn’t seem to realise, such as how disorganised the backstage of a theatre is a half hour before the curtain rises.

“No problem at all,” says Courfeyrac before Enjolras can throw a shoe at Marius’s head for assuming that that would be fine. “I take it that the two of you _got along_ yesterday then?”

Marius beams. “Lady Cosette is the most wonderful creature I have ever laid eyes on. I spent half the night composing a sonnet for her, you know.”

Enjolras feels a headache coming on.

“I _do_ know,” says Courfeyrac dryly, “because I was in the bed next to you and you kept muttering bits out loud. I would strongly suggest that you refrain from comparing her hair to straw, my friend. Straw is not romantic.”

Marius sighs. Enjolras closes his eyes in despair. He pulls his costume from the wardrobe to check it over and takes a brush to fluff up the enormous feather on his hat and leaves Marius to Courfeyrac, because the alternative is to leap across their small shared room, shake Marius by the shoulders and yell, ‘I cannot believe you kept one of my lead actors up all night with bad poetry’ and perhaps also ‘Marius, who cares about your lonely soul?’

Thankfully when Lady Cosette and her father really do arrive amidst the chaos, they are overwhelmingly understanding. “Don’t let me get in your way,” says Lady Cosette when Enjolras hurries up for a quick greeting. “I’m perfectly happy just to stand in a corner and observe.” Enjolras is starting to understand why Marius likes her so very much.

Lady Cosette’s father is quiet and polite, speaking up only to make the perfunctory introductions and then standing off to one side. Enjolras gets the impression that he is here more to chaperone than out of any particular interest in theatre mostly because he seems to instantly loom more and look more threatening whenever Marius is looking at Cosette, but neither of them say a single word about the way everyone is running around like a headless chicken and for that, he is grateful. The adrenaline is already pounding through Enjolras’s veins and he excuses himself to get dressed and made-up.

“Five minutes to curtain,” bellows Bahorel eventually, and Marius leads their guests towards their seats as everyone else makes a concentrated rush toward Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s dressing room.

They have a tradition where they gather around in a huddled circle and Enjolras says a few words. “We’ve worked hard for this. We’ve pulled together a show quicker than we’ve ever managed to before.” He takes a deep breath, and deviates off script. “This is a comedy. Let’s enjoy ourselves.” He looks around at all of them and savours the expressions of surprise that Enjolras has actually encouraged them to _enjoy themselves_. “It’s time. Let’s make our playwright proud.” He claps, and everyone breaks into cheers, slapping each other on the back.

Grantaire looks slightly taken aback; Enjolras catches his eye and can only grin.

“Whose are these?” Combeferre holds up a pair of stuffers with bemusement as he trips over them.

“Mine,” says Ep. “I have something to tell you all by the way. My name is Eponine. I'm actually a woman.”

Silence falls. “CURTAIN!” screams one of the stagehands, hammering on the door and then bolting away.

“Enjolras,” hisses Grantaire, pushing him toward the stage. “Later.”

“You knew,” says Enjolras, in a daze.

“Of course I did. _Later._ ”

~

In The Globe, the curtain is, of course, a hypothetical one, as there is no actual curtain over the stage. When Enjolras walks on stage, closely followed by Joly, the first thing he notices is that there is a commotion in the stands. A very specific commotion, really.

“ARREST THAT MAN!” someone is screaming and Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose. “I used to be a constable. Arrest that man, he is a thief!”

And as if the situation could not get any worse, as if the _opening act_ of their play hasn’t been disturbed, the enraged man is pointing at Lady Cosette’s father. Marius springs out of his seat to step out in front of Lady Cosette as Viscount Valjean draws himself up.

“I am a respected member of the Peerage,” Viscount Valjean says, loudly and clearly enough that Enjolras can hear him. “And you have served your year in the Constabulary. I suggest you take your accusations elsewhere.”

His accuser punches him across the jaw. Enjolras wants to fly up into the stands and pummel the man, but Joly’s holding on to his arm. “The theatre’s men are on their way.” He nods at the figures pushing their way through the gawping crowd, armed with thick batons that they use to separate the two men. The former Constable is wrestled out of the stands to be ejected, Enjolras hopes.

As if on cue, someone, probably Combeferre, has asked the band to re-play the piece that was supposed to accompany Enjolras’s entrance, a little louder than necessary, dragging everyone’s attention back to the stage. Enjolras doesn’t even need to pretend to be in a foul mood as he throws himself over the couch and pretends to languish. “If music be the food of love, play on.”

~

Enjolras is not on stage with Grantaire until near the end of the play, which means that he doesn’t have to worry about being caught looking at the way Grantaire’s steward costume is really very flattering for his thighs. “Who tailored Grantaire’s breeches?” he asks in a low murmur when they have a brief respite in the wings, a question not really directed to anyone. “They’re very tight.”

“Grantaire, I presume,” says Courfeyrac from behind him and Enjolras starts. Enjolras is glad that there are no windows this side of the building, so that the shade hides his blush as his friend grins knowingly. He looks like he wants to stay to ask for more details but his cue is soon, and he moves to get ready to enter.

From further in, Eponine raises his – her eyebrows. Enjolras coughs lightly. “So,” he says. “You are… a girl.”

“Yes,” says Eponine.

“It is a little improper,” says Enjolras haltingly. “I mean, in rehearsals, you must have seen us all change clothes at least a few times.”

“Yes,” says Eponine.

“And, I mean, I kiss you at the end of the play.”

“Yes,” says Eponine.

“Do you… love me too?”

“No,” says Eponine. She narrows her eyes.

“Oh. That’s good?” Enjolras winces as her eyes become barely visible slits of annoyance. “I mean, yes, that’s good. Is it not?”

“Not everything is about you, Enjolras,” says Eponine with a sigh as if she has tried to ignore his awkward conversation and simply cannot bear how very wrong he is about everything. It’s somewhat similar to what Grantaire does when they discuss dramatic techniques, actually. “I want to act. You needed someone who knew your lines. I’m not interested in your flaccid penis because, as mentioned, I am not in love or even in lust with you.”

Enjolras had never thought that he would be one of those men who puffed up with indignance when someone expressed a disinterest in them, but he finds himself doing exactly that. His member is all that unimpressive, he does not think. The only ones he has basis of comparison to are Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s of course, a result of having shared rooms between the three of them for years, and he splutters in Eponine’s face.

“Besides, how many times do you think _Grantaire’s_ seen you changing?” Eponine snorts.

“I–” Enjolras reddens. It is true that being an actor affords no discretion when they need to change costumes between scenes. “Well, he oftentimes plays more than one character in a play, so fewer times than I’ve watched him changing, I would suppose.”

Eponine raises an eyebrow. That expression has been pulled so many times around him recently that the next time someone does it, he’s going to shave their eyebrow off and redraw it several inches higher in kohl. “I said ‘seen’, Enjolras. Seeing is rather different from watching. Do you _watch_ Grantaire change?”

Enjolras pauses. “...No?”

“Hmm. I suppose that there’s hope for him yet then. That was your cue, Enjolras.”

“I – damnation.” Enjolras wants to ask her what she means by that, because he would have thought that he himself was the one who needed hope when he seemed to be so in the dark about those surrounding him but Eponine was right, that had been his cue, and so he stores it away for later questioning and darts back toward the stage.

~

“Is this the madman?” says Enjolras.

Grantaire looks mad indeed, cross-gartered and in yellow and covered with a generous slather of ‘dirt’, but his eyes gleam out from his face. He looks half-crazed, as he is meant to, and yet Enjolras finds himself listening intently to his plea, his rage, as if they were Grantaire's own and not Malvolio's. He wonders briefly if he had considered his part when he had been writing this speech, had been thinking about these words spilling out of his mouth at Enjolras and poured in his frustration at being continually, repeatedly spurned by Enjolras.

Grantaire finishes, and Enjolras almost forgets what he's supposed to do next as distress sets in.

His stomach churns for a fair few minutes, right up until Grantaire turns his back on the audience and flashes a quick, cheeky grin at Enjolras, so sincere that Enjolras cannnot believe that Grantaire would avoid him so and couch such intent behind his speeches.

~

Eponine is a foot from his side and Enjolras can see the shape of her breasts if he squints and his head drifts closer to her in an unconscious reflection of what happened with Grantaire the night before. He wets his lips (he can see each individual thick eyelash as she blinks) and presses his lips to hers. Her lips are soft and plump and so very different to Montparnasse's, because Montparnasse is the only other person he's kissed recently, and Enjolras doesn't really know what to do except kind of limply make vague nodding motions with his head. When he pulls back, it is with abject relief and an absolute conviction that he doesn't really want to kiss girls.

Eponine is looking at him with vague terror in her eyes and Enjolras internally winces, even as he pulls himself together to finish the final few scenes.

“That was terrible,” says Eponine the moment they get backstage.

“I know,” says Enjolras, and he does. He’s had his fair share of stage kisses, often with Montparnasse, and that one is likely to rank the highest in terms of similarity to kissing a wet fish. “It wasn’t you,” he says reassuringly. “It was my fault.”

“I know _that_ ,” she says indignantly, and Enjolras grimaces. “Too busy thinking about kissing someone else?” says Eponine, wiggling her eyebrows ludicrously.

“What – no!”

Eponine blinks, and then hits him squarely on the arm. “Why not? You ought to be!” She stomps off, leaving Enjolras rubbing at his arm and scowling. He just can’t win.  She does, however, leave him a lot to think about.

As the play closes, the audience roars with approval. There is cheering and stamping and affectionate throwing of rubbish at the stage (distinguishable from disgruntled throwing of rubbish by the fact that none of it is glass or aimed at their heads) and it lifts Enjolras’s spirit. After all of the trouble, the stress, the hair-cutting, an audience that appreciates the drama makes it all worthwhile. When he links hands with Combeferre and Courfeyrac and bows, he cannot help but sneak a glance at Grantaire.

“Playwright!” someone in the audience yells.

Enjolras snatches up the opportunity and whirls on Grantaire. “Playwright!” he hollers, pleasure filling his gut at the way Grantaire blushes with embarrassment and surprise. “Playwright!”

The others catch on, Joly and Bossuet each pushing Grantaire forward until he stumbles into the middle of the stage, laughing and cursing. The crowd cheers, and Grantaire rounds on them, cheeks high from grinning. “Aw, shut your big fat mouths!” He yells, and Enjolras nearly has a heart attack – but the audience love it.

 _Grantaire should be a leading man_. The thought comes out of nowhere, surprising himself as Enjolras watches him banter with the crowd, practically overflowing with vigour and enthusiasm and feeding the audience’s elation back to them. Enjolras settles back and watches him, and sorts through a few of the things running through his mind.

~

Enjolras's notion of courting and romance comes mostly from various plays he's been in, which is why he has an unwieldy bunch of roses cradled in one arm behind his back, the thorns stabbing into his back and a pebble in the other. He has not, he has to admit, the most truest of aims, and the first pebble hits his own window instead of Grantaire's. Luckily, he thinks that that Combeferre is currently in Courfeyrac's rooms, so nothing happens. His second and third pebbles hit the thatching and the wall. The fifth one pings off a drainpipe and ricochets back at him. The sixth one finally hits the right window.

Nothing happens.

Enjolras knows that there's someone in there because he can see the candle flickering and also the silhouettes occasionally passing through the room, so he tries again.

And again. And again. By the fourth time that Enjolras has managed to hit Grantaire's window, he has a pretty good eye for the strength and movement he needs, and the fifth time actually almost hits Grantaire as he flings open the window and yells, "WHAT THE HELL – Enjolras?"

"G'evening."

Grantaire looks thunderous. "Are you trying to break my window?"

"No!" protests Enjolras.

“CEASE THAT RACKET,” bellows one of their neighbours; their window swings open and foul smelling liquid flies out of the window, narrowly missing Enjolras as he dashes to one side.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whispers once the window has slammed closed again, and holds up the offering in his hands. “Do you like roses?”

There is a long pause. “This is not Act V of a play, Enjolras,” Grantaire says faintly, just loud enough for Enjolras to hear, three stories down.

“I know,” replies Enjolras, “If it were, I wouldn’t have almost been hit by that slopbucket just now.”

Grantaire laughs helplessly, leaning over the window and stuffing his fist into his mouth lest the neighbour returns. “Then why are you down there, throwing pebbles at my window, instead of _in my room_? You know perfectly well how to get up the stairs and I don’t have an overprotective father waiting to lynch you.”

“You have me!” Enjolras hears Jehan call from behind Grantaire.

“I wanted to be romantic,” says Enjolras, panicking. Perhaps Grantaire doesn’t like roses.

Grantaire props his chin on the windowsill and looks down at him. Enjolras can't tell what his expression is from this far away. "Come and be romantic up here," say Grantaire eventually, and Enjolras can hear the smile in his voice.

"Right," says Enjolras, and darts for the door.

By the time he's clambered up the stairs, Jehan is nowhere to be seen, evidently bundled out of the way for convenience and Grantaire is standing alone, nervously, in the middle of their room. “G’evening.”


	5. Act V

Grantaire holds out an ale glass.

“Erm,” says Enjolras.

“For the roses,” Grantaire clarifies with a small, private smile on his face that spreads as it lets Enjolras in on the secret. “I have nothing suitably grand for them, I’m afraid.”

Grantaire’s put on a jacket over his nightclothes with the anticipation of sudden company, but his legs are still bare, his toes curling into the worn rug with nervousness.

They set the bunch of flowers in a hastily cleared space on the dresser, then step back to survey them. “I would like,” says Enjolras slowly, carefully, “to woo you.”

Grantaire turns slowly to look at him and it feels as though time is stretching itself like taffy. Enjolras sees every minute movement in his face despite the way Grantaire pulls his expression blank, as though he cannot decide which emotion to let bleed through.

“I would like that too,” he says eventually. “But why?”

Enjolras is at a loss for words. Enjolras is never at a loss for words. He might spend his career letting other people’s words flow through him, but it is not for a lack of things to say himself. He lets himself pause, gives himself the time to think, to pick the words he wishes to convey the most and discards them one by one. He knows that Grantaire would not accept them now, cannot accept them, cannot accept himself.

Finally, just before Grantaire’s face can fall, Enjolras smiles. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

Grantaire laughs, a sudden bark that shatters the thin tension that had begun setting upon them like thin ice. “No, ye gods, please no, Enjolras. I am neither lovely nor temperate, which you know full well.”

“No, you are not,” says Enjolras with a helpless shrug. “And yet I wish to woo you anyway. Is that not as much of an answer?”

“You know it isn’t,” says Grantaire, his face puckered as if he had bitten a lemon and Enjolras struggles to say the right thing.

“I do not know,” says Enjolras eventually. “Is that what you wish to hear? I do not know what was the turning point, what is different from you now to what you were a week ago, a month ago. It is, I think, more of an accumulation of slow realisations rather than one large epiphany that has led to this. Your dedication, your fervour–”

“My drunkeness, my tardiness–”

“–Your competency, your talent at writing–”

“–My abuse of the slapstick and my cripplingly low self-esteem–”

“Grantaire, _stop_.” Enjolras presses a hand over Grantaire’s mouth as if it is the only way to halt the bile spilling forth and Grantaire stares at him with wide eyes. “These are not my words, they are yours. Erm. Apologies.” He takes his hand away.

Grantaire’s mouth twists into an unhappy smile. “It appears that you at least like me more than I like myself. That’s something.”

“I would want this,” says Enjolras quietly, because he needs Grantaire to believe him, and he is not above using every single dramatic device he has in his arsenal. “I would want this even if you were no successful poet, no shown playwright, no esteemed player. It is not just your successes that attract me to you. It is the sum of you, you stupid sot of a wastrel.”

That, finally, draws a surprised laugh from Grantaire. “That is the most romantic I have seen you be.”

“Did you not like the roses and the pebble throwing?” asks Enjolras, relieved that Grantaire appreciates the moment of humour.

“I suspect I might like it more if I had not been expecting it to be mischievous children attempting to break my window.” Grantaire pauses. “You must know,” he says, his hand falling to his chest where the faint outline of a locket lies, “that I am quite gone on you? Quite, quite gone?”

“Yes.” Enjolras takes the opportunity to step closer, hands reaching out to Grantaire as he almost flinches backward. He catches Grantaire’s wrists in his hands and pulls them close to his chest “And I must confess that I – am not. Not yet, anyhow. But I would like to be? Well, I do not know if I would like to be, yet, of course, but I would like the _chance_ to be.” Enjolras snaps his mouth shut before more words can run away from him.

Grantaire smiles, and smooths his thumbs over Enjolras's knuckles; Enjolras shivers slightly at the feelings intent behind that small movement.

“The great Enjolras, bereft of words,” says Grantaire but there is not mockery there.

It seems as if he wants to say more and so Enjolras waits, but they do nothing but stand in the middle of Grantaire’s rooms, hands clasped and pressing on both their chests, foreheads so close that Enjolras can occasionally feel the gentle sweep of Grantaire’s dark eyelashes over his own.

“If you wake tomorrow morn and regret, at least I will have this moment to remember,” says Grantaire eventually, his voice soft.

“I will not,” says Enjolras and he is sure of it. He pulls back, far enough so that he can look up that extra inch and meet Grantaire’s eyes squarely. “Will you take me to bed tonight?”

“To sleep, perchance to dream,” says Grantaire. “Nothing more, not tonight.”

“I would have you show me,” says Enjolras, taking a step backward toward Grantaire’s bed, “all the ways in which men can please each other.”

Grantaire laughs, a low, amazed crackle of a sound. “Why Enjolras. I did not think you were interested in such carnal sins.”

Enjolras flushes, because it is a reasonable assumption. He has never been ruled by such emotions before. “It is not the act that interests me so much as the person I may commit these acts with. I cannot believe that they are sins.” He takes another step backward.

“Perhaps they are not, when it comes to you,” says Grantaire, brushing one lock of blond hair back from Enjolras's face. “For you are an angel if anything, surely.”

Enjolras takes the final step backwards; his calves hit the frame of the bed and he is forced to sit down upon the lumpy mattress. Grantaire teeters on his toes but Enjolras slides his hands down to his hips and pulls him forward; Grantaire laughs and topples forward, straddling Enjolras's lap as he does so. Grantaire is heavy on him, a warm, comforting weight and Enjolras tips his head forward to lean his cheek against the broad plane of Grantaire’s chest.

“You ought not venerate me so,” says Enjolras, sliding his hands from Grantaire’s hips down to his thighs, which are thick with muscle and shudder most delightfully when Enjolras presses his hands over them. “I have desires like other men.”

“Do you just,” says Grantaire, voice husky, and Enjolras likes how he can feel it reverberating through his chest. Callused fingers sift through Enjolras's hair, the motion reminding him of when Grantaire had helped him cut it, and he closes his eyes as Grantaire’s fingers explore, first stroking his hair, pulling at the remaining stubborn curls and then flit over the rest of his face, his eyebrows, his nose, his cheekbones, the edge of his jaw.

“It is a most willful power imbalance,” says Enjolras, relaxing into Grantaire’s touch. “I know this. You think me an angel. I think that of no one. My feelings for you are but a spark compared to yours right now and so there is more extinguished should it happen for you. Will you have me anyway?”

“Has that ever been in question? I think the real question is whether _you_ would have _me_.” Grantaire laughs, using a single finger to tip Enjolras's chin upwards.

“I would.” Enjolras opens his eyes just in time for their lips to meet, a fleeting touch at first, until Enjolras leans upwards and presses their lips together. Grantaire’s breath rushes out in a warm huff and his lips are dry and chapped but his mouth is warm and eager. Enjolras slides his arms around Grantaire’s waist and feels Grantaire similarly cradle the back of his head with one hand.

Once Enjolras seems to have convinced Grantaire that this is real, that he really is here and he wants this, Grantaire takes over the kiss. He pulls back, only to grin at Enjolras when he evidently sees what he is searching for and surge back forwards, nipping at Enjolras's lower lip with his teeth and then soothe away the bites with long swipes of his tongue.

This is nothing like a stage kiss. That would be a dry press of the lips accompanied by some chewing motions, gyrating the jaw whilst trying to only maintain that single point of contact. Enjolras almost starts to do that from habit but Grantaire never gives him the chance, easing his tongue into Enjolras's open mouth and sliding it alongside his.

Grantaire kisses like the tide, ever surging forward but so gentle with each kiss, each lick, each lap of the tongue he takes to canvas Enjolras's mouth. Enjolras tries to copy – he doesn’t know how successful he is – but Grantaire has carried on, peppering kisses on Enjolras's nose, his cheeks, across the line of his jaw and down his neck, returning between every few to claim Enjolras's mouth again.

“Grantaire,” whispers Enjolras, sliding his hands up under Grantaire’s jacket, and then it’s just a thin layer of cotton between his hands and the smooth, soft arch of Grantaire’s back. Grantaire shudders from the heat of his palms and when Enjolras lies back on the bed, he pulls Grantaire down with him.

“Say that again,” says Grantaire, eyes hidden in the shadows of his hair, thick and falling forward across his face.

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras, reaching up to tuck the dark, springy curls behind one ear so that he can see more clearly.

Grantaire traces Enjolras's lips with the soft pad of one finger. “Again.”

Enjolras presses the most tiny of kisses to the finger and lets his breath mist warm across it. “Grantaire.”

“You make me come undone,” says Grantaire wistfully, almost sadly.

Enjolras's hands tighten minutely around Grantaire’s waist. “I would like to be more gentle with you when I do it.”

Grantaire laughs, and rolls sideways onto the bed, propping himself up with one arm. The other strokes across Enjolras's neck and he leans into the touch. “I can barely stand it when you are cruel to me, Enjolras, however will I survive when you are kind?”

“I did not intend – I was not –” Enjolras huffs out a breath, because everything he can think of to say sounds like an excuse. “You must tell me, in the future, when I am cruel,” he says. “And I will endeavour to stop it.”

Grantaire looks at him with worried eyes, and Enjolras can only imagine what he’s thinking, how he thinks he’ll incur more of Enjolras's wrath this way.

“Please?”

“How could I refuse?” Grantaire sighs and Enjolras shuffles toward him to press a kiss, two, twenty, onto his lips and down his neck until Grantaire is breathless.

There is a knock on the door, a soft tentative one that Enjolras barely registers but has Grantaire sitting upright. “Yes?”

Jehan’s head pokes around the door. “Grantaire? Are you all right? Did Enjolras – oh. Enjolras.”

Enjolras waves awkwardly.

“We’re all right,” says Grantaire, flushing a deep red colour, tugging his nightshirt straight even though they haven’t even considered the removal of clothing just yet.

“The roses are beautiful,” says Jehan, his entire face lighting up as he smiles. “I, er, just came to fetch a few of my night things. Combeferre and I are discussing poetry and I think I may stay in his rooms for the night.”

“Take my bed,” says Enjolras. “I won’t need it tonight.”

“You won’t?” asks Grantaire.

“To sleep, perchance to dream, is that not what you promised me?” Enjolras looks up at Grantaire and sees the moment he smiles. “You are not rescinding your offer, are you?”

“I would offer you my bed in return,” says Jehan as he pads about, quickly picking up his dressing gown and his toothbrush, “but I assume you won’t be needing it.” He waves them both farewell, and presses a particularly fond kiss to the top of Grantaire’s head before offsetting it with a quick ruffle of his hair. “Do remember that we have more performances tomorrow,” he says before winking and closing the door behind them both.

Grantaire’s face is red again when he looks down at Enjolras.

“I am guessing that is a testament to your usual amount of stamina when it comes to these things,” says Enjolras, just about managing a straight face.

“I suppose we really should start to get ready for bed,” says Grantaire, not entirely meeting his eyes.

Enjolras sits up. “We will have time to speak of this,” he agrees, and slides Grantaire’s jacket down off his shoulders.

In return, Grantaire hovers his hand above Enjolras's chest for a moment, giving Enjolras plenty of time to back away before undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, unlacing the ties of his tunic and helping him out until Enjolras is just in a thin undershirt. Grantaire’s fingers slide hesitantly across the top of Enjolras's breeches, which turns into long, surer strokes of his fingers when Enjolras's reaction is hitched breath and the nervous wetting of his parted lips.

“Are you sure you simply wish to sleep?” asks Enjolras, frankly impressed with how steady his voice is, and Grantaire’s fingers still. “No, no,” says Enjolras quickly, “you don’t have to stop.”

“It is not my intention to be a tease,” says Grantaire firmly. “I shall wait for you for as long as it takes.” He squirms under the sheets, holding them up for Enjolras to do the same. Enjolras rids himself of the breeches, because they really are uncomfortable to sleep in, and watches Grantaire trace his legs with his eyes. Despite himself, despite having been mostly naked in front of Grantaire, in front of all his friends, multiple times, Enjolras feels a blush spreading. He tugs his undershirt as low as it will go, which is to say not very far, and clambers in beside Grantaire as best as he can.

It makes little difference, the undershirt, for the bed is small enough that Enjolras finds his body bracketed by Grantaire’s arms, and it takes but moments before Grantaire’s cold legs are entangled in his own. Enjolras traces his fingers down the cords of muscle in Grantaire’s forearm and shivers at the feel of Grantaire’s nose nuzzling at the back of his neck.

The day’s tension starts to bleed out of him, now that Enjolras is warm and comfortable and comforted. Enjolras had thought that he might not be able to sleep tonight, for all that they should rest after an opening day performance; he feared he would be wound tight with emotions foreign to him. He wonders if Grantaire’s arm is numb yet, or whether he’s uncomfortable and just not saying anything, but he doesn’t want to say anything because the pressure in his side is comforting. He wonders what will happen when they wake in the morning, whether Grantaire will, will –

~

The morning dawns, unnoticed by the two men sleeping in the attic room. That’s not uncommon for one of them, but when Enjolras finally wakes, feeling well-rested and languid as a cat, he blinks at the sun high in the sky and gurgles in horror. He has a thousand errands he needs to run before tonight’s performance and he almost throws the covers off before a heavy weight on his shoulder groans theatrically and burrows into his neck.

“No,” says Grantaire, voice like gravel, “you are not allowed to sneak out like a cat thief. You promised me you wouldn’t regret it.” He’s teasing, Enjolras is sure, but he can hear the undercurrent of desperation anyway.

“I do not,” says Enjolras, because of this he is sure. “There are simply many things that must be done before tonight’s performance.”

“Sleeptime,” insists Grantaire and bites Enjolras’s shoulder.

“It is practically noon!” Enjolras can’t remember the last time he got up this late, but then again, he can’t remember much of anything else right now either, perhaps because Grantaire is rubbing his day old stubble against Enjolras’s neck.

It takes a while but Enjolras does get up, prying Grantaire’s warm hands off as Grantaire mewls and yowls with protest, almost giving in until he sees the scheming smirk on Grantaire’s face, and bids him farewell with a kiss. He wasn’t lying – there are several things that Enjolras ought to have done last night when he instead spent the time pacing in front of a flower-seller, wondering if roses were appropriate.

Enjolras’s rooms are empty now, both Combeferre and Jehan being early risers, and he finds them in Courfeyrac’s rooms. The three of them are gathered on Courfeyrac’s bed, seemingly revising parts of the play they thought went well, or could do better, but in reality lounging around being lazy sods as they wait for Enjolras to finally appear.

The three of them have grins in varying degrees, ranging from the way Courfeyrac beams to Combeferre’s small, hidden smile, and Enjolras feels like a rabbit caught in a very obvious trap.

“What, no roses for me?” asks Courfeyrac.

“Do you keep a curl of my hair in a locket around your neck?” retorts Enjolras, surprised to find that he’s feeling too good-natured to let their ribbing impact his morning.

“No, but if I did, it would be for witchcraft,” says Courfeyrac with a grin. He is never one to indulge in mockery for too long though, and on the tail of that follows his sincere well wishes. “I’m happy for you, my friend.”

“I’m happy for me too,” says Enjolras with a straight face. It only cracks into a grin of his own when Courfeyrac stands to envelope him in a hug.

He finds out from Courfeyrac (who in turn found out from Marius) that Lady Cosette’s father has had the matter from yesterday settled. Marius is incredibly satisfied with his investment and the fact that the production has his name attached to it, _and_ wishes to sponsor them for more new plays in the future. In turn, Lady Cosette has begged Jehan for more poetry and, it appears, queried into whether Grantaire will do her a reading soon too.

It seems that all’s well that ends well to Enjolras. He flits through his errands with ease, buying a sausage roll to keep his hands warm as he bustles through the streets of London and a copy of the Gazette tucked into his bag so that he can read the review of the play later. The laundrette is mostly empty when he visits; the ticket office claims to be sold out for that afternoon. He even manages to arrive at the theatre a full half hour earlier than he usually does before a performance.

Enjolras is halfway through the door to his dressing room when a pair of hands reach out and yank him in by the collar. Enjolras gasps, a sound swallowed by a pair of lips over his own. Enjolras’s hands fly up, bracing himself on Grantaire’s hips as Grantaire hops up onto the dressing table, and strong legs wrap around his hips, pulling him until he’s flush against Grantaire’s chest.

“I lied,” says Grantaire when he pulls away, finally, for breath. “I do that, you must brace yourself for it. Or perhaps you already have. In any case, I lied.”

“What?” asks Enjolras, whose brain feels like it’s been sucked out of his head by the strength of Grantaire’s kiss.

“I am _not_ waiting,” says Grantaire, all in a rush, “I cannot, Enjolras, you will be the death of me.” He presses hot, urgent kisses against Enjolras, babbling between each one. “I have been thinking about you since you left my bed. That’s excessive, even for me.” He laughs, somehow bright and kind and broken all at the same time.

“I have not thought of you,” says Enjolras because he is nothing if not truthful, “but that is because you have rid me of the capacity to think altogether.”

Grantaire laughs again, and rubs his thumb against Enjolras’s jaw. “That is the highest compliment you could give me, I should think.” He looks up at Enjolras between hooded eyes. “You said you were ready, before. I thought you would change your mind after last night.”

“I have not,” says Enjolras, again, struggling to keep up with the speed of this conversation.

“I know,” says Grantaire. “I can scarcely believe it, but I know. Are you still–ready?” He sounds hopeful, desperate, shy. Enjolras wonders when he became so adept at reading Grantaire’s emotions.

It is such an odd turn of phrase, so cryptic and halting that it takes Enjolras a moment to figure out what on earth Grantaire is talking about. Grantaire’s hands trail down the length of Enjolras’s body, from his face down his chest, across the breadth of his ribs around around to his back. And then – lower.

“Oh!” says Enjolras with realisation as Grantaire cups his arse. “Oh. I – yes, Grantaire. _Yes._ ”

“Yes?” repeats Grantaire.

“Yes,” confirms Enjolras, raising his hand to undo the ties of his tunic with one simple tug. “I would like to please you.”

Grantaire makes a strangled noise like he is dying, and peels Enjolras‘s tunic off with little decorum, shucking his own garments off in record time. His hands never stray far from Enjolras’s body, constantly reaching out again and again to touch, to stroke, to simply hover over the skin as if he can hardly believe he has permission to be doing this. “You know just which words to use to slay me.”

Enjolras responds in kind, rubbing over the growing bulge in Grantaire’s breeches as he undoes the ties with shaky fingers and revelling in the way it makes Grantaire groan.

“Fuck,” says Grantaire, staring when Enjolras kicks his breeches and undergarments off. “For the love of all that is sacred, fuck.”

“What?” says Enjolras, startled, suddenly self-conscious.

“You bastard,” says Grantaire. “It is positively unholy to be such perfection.” He actually sounds genuinely distressed at this, and Enjolras is startled into a laugh as Grantaire reaches forward with greedy hands, pressing his palms all over Enjolras’s body.

The laughter doesn’t stay for long as Grantaire’s deft fingers slide over the sensitive skin of Enjolras’s inner thigh, and he gasps into Grantaire’s ear. They quickly change places, Grantaire pushing Enjolras onto the dressing table as he hastily peels his own breeches off properly, cursing some more as they get caught over one foot. Enjolras takes the time to admire the shapely curve of Grantaire’s rear as he hops about the small space, yank at his breeches.

Then it’s Enjolras’s turn to wrap his legs around Grantaire, relishing the way Grantaire’s hips dig into his thighs and how Grantaire gurgles when his cock brushes against Enjolras’s leg. “So beautiful,” says Grantaire, his hands at the small of Enjolras’s back, urging him closer. Enjolras rocks his hips experimentally, which sets off another round of swearing, and feels an inordinate amount of smugness as he feels Grantaire grow harder against him.

“My turn,” gasps Grantaire, and only his wicked smile gives anything away before he slides a sly finger between Enjolras’s arsecheeks and gently strokes the sensitive skin there.

Enjolras blinks at him. “Oh,” he says, a soft exhale of air.

“Oh indeed,” says Grantaire, looking for something, anything with which to slick his fingers.

“The lamp,” says Enjolras, at which point Grantaire has to look at him for a very long moment. Enjolras blushes.

“You are a font of information,” says Grantaire, managing not to laugh, and seizes upon the oil and dribbling it generously across Enjolras. He teases his finger around, matching the circular motion with his tongue around Enjolras’s nipple until Enjolras mewls and Grantaire obliges, sliding one slippery finger in and taking his time to open him up.

“Breathe,” says Grantaire, barely daring to do so himself as he pushes in, angling it so that he brushes the right spot inside of Enjolras.

“There – no, like before – yes, there,” says Enjolras, drawing his legs up and propping his foot on the edge of the table. Grantaire makes an undignified noise when he sees Enjolras spread out for him and hastily adds another finger.

Enjolras hisses in satisfaction and drops his head back, baring his neck for Grantaire to press his lips against, drag the edge of his teeth against and whisper soft murmurings that Enjolras can’t quite make out as he moves his hand faster, twisting occasionally as Enjolras opens up easily. “I’m ready,” pants Enjolras, squirming the best he can.

“You are not,” says Grantaire.

“Grantaire, please, I am.” Enjolras digs his fingers into Grantaire’s shoulders, nails biting a little deeper every time Grantaire thrusts his fingers in and rubs over that spot inside of him.

Grantaire looks torn. “I shall hurt you,” he says.

“I do not care,” says Enjolras. “Do it. I wish to feel you for days. I want to know that you wanted me so very much that you gave in and claimed me and took me as you pleased.” He goes red when he realises what he’s said, but he also locks eyes with Grantaire and refuses to back down. “Give in,” he says, pitching his voice low. He strokes a fingertip over Grantaire’s leaking cock and then slides his finger into his mouth, tamping down his victorious grin when Grantaire shudders.

“You play dirty,” says Grantaire helplessly, eyes fixated on Enjolras sucking his own finger, because what can he do after that display.

“We both want it.”

Grantaire whimpers, but pulls his fingers out of Enjolras, wiping them on his hip before lining his cock up against Enjolras. Even that slight touch against his arsehole makes Enjolras’s stomach tense with anticipation. “Enjolras. Are you–”

Enjolras is sure that Grantaire’s next word was to be ‘certain’, but he never gives him the chance to say it, rolling his hips forward and over the tip of Grantaire’s cock and not stopping until he feels Grantaire’s balls press against him. “O-oo _ohhh_ ,” moans Enjolras, because it _is_ too much, it _does_ hurt, and it feels fucking amazing. Grantaire’s nails score ragged lines down Enjolras’s hips as he groans, and Enjolras thrashes on the tabletop, only Grantaire’s weight keeping him down.

Enjolras can feel his body clenching around Grantaire, and he almost says ‘stop’, almost pulls off and rolls away, because that’s what his body wants to _do_ when it’s in pain, but then Grantaire chooses that moment to take Enjolras’s word for it. He pulls out and thrusts back in and Enjolras cries out.

“Enjolras,” says Grantaire, one simple word. He looks wrecked.

“ _Yes_ ,” says Enjolras, too incoherent to think of other words, and then Grantaire is fucking him in earnest, barely giving Enjolras time to adjust to the thickness inside him between each thrust.

“Mmnnrrgh,” says Grantaire the first time Enjolras accidentally yanks on his hair when he thrusts, and the way his eyes roll back into his head indicates that it was a good reaction, so Enjolras does it again, and again, until Grantaire’s eyes get a bit of a permanently glazed look. “So good,” he says, words stuttering out, “you feel so good, I could write whole sonnets about this. You are so very tight and hot and Enjolras, the way you _clench_ –”

“Quiet, you,” gasps Enjolras, but he doesn’t mean it, not at _all_ because Grantaire should never stop saying such wicked, arousing things in his ear.

“I _need you_ to understand what you do to me,” says Grantaire, halfway between reverence and desperation when he works a hand around Enjolras’s cock. An embarrassingly high-pitched whine escapes Enjolras as the stimulation doubles. Enjolras feels like he’s holding on for dear life, one hand fisted in Grantaire’s curls and the other clutching his shoulder.

“Oh, I see,” says Grantaire, grinning in delight at the way Enjolras squirms. “That’s – ahh, there? You like it there?”

“Hnnnrgh.”

Enjolras will be embarrassed about it later, but right now his cock is already leaking and Grantaire keeps rubbing his thumb over the slit. Grantaire pulls out and Enjolras whimpers when he doesn't thrust back in. "Grantaire, please, please, carry on, what–"

"I have you, I have you," whispers Grantaire as Enjolras squirms, his body begging for more. Grantaire kisses down his chest and it feels good, but he just really, really needs to get something back up his arse right now so it's in abject relief that Enjolras cries out when Grantaire presses two fingers back in. And oh, now it's clear what Grantaire was doing because he's kissed his way all down the blond fuzz of hair below Enjolras's belly button and slides Enjolras's cock all the way into his mouth and crooks his fingers at the same time, rocking his entire hand into Enjolras.

Enjolras's world goes white.

"Enjolras, Enjolras." Grantaire is petting his hair and stroking his arm when Enjolras begins to be aware of his surroundings again. Grantaire is leaning over him, eyes wide and amused and affectionate and – far too many things for Enjolras to name right now.

"Again," says Enjolras, and Grantaire bursts out laughing.

"So soon?" He says, but his smile is impossibly bright, so wide that his cheeks might split.

"Whenever you wish," says Enjolras, and it's slowly dawning on him that he has no verbal filter between his mind and his mouth at the moment.

Grantaire muffles his laughter against Enjolras's shoulder, and it's only when his cock, still hard, bumps against Enjolras's hip that Enjolras pushes himself up.

"You need to finish," says Enjolras, pulling Grantaire between his legs again.

"Enjolras, you don't have to–"

 

"I want you to finish," says Enjolras, pressing himself to Grantaire's chest and pressing wet, soft kisses into his mouth to smother his words, and tasting himself in Grantaire's mouth. "I want you to finish yourself inside me." He tries that thing that Grantaire does, batting his eyelashes, and finds Grantaire staring at him, mouth slightly parted.

"If you insist," says Grantaire, not putting up half the fight he would normally, and lines himself up again. This time, he pushes in much slower than before, and Enjolras hisses, the overstimulation a new sensation for him. "Too much?" asks Grantaire.

"As fast and as hard as you can," says Enjolras, swallowing thickly as arousal floods his tired body again.

"Your wish is my command,” whispers Grantaire, except then he is gentle and slow, which feels stupendous but isn’t, frankly, what Enjolras asked for. He hits Grantaire on the shoulder and Grantaire bites his ear and grumbles and changes his speed as abruptly as he did the first time.

Enjolras lies back on the table, a prop or costume or something digging into his back as Grantaire speeds up and _slams_ into him. He gasps, the stimulation overwhelming. His eyes start to leak tears and he presses a hand over his mouth in an attempt to muffle the cries. The sides of his vision start to go fuzzy and it’s too much, it’s far too much and Enjolras wants it to stop, to never stop, he can’t decide.

There’s a desperate high-pitched noise filling the room, and Enjolras becomes vaguely aware that it’s him, sounding like a wanton whore except he had always thought that those sounds were exaggerated, a result of the whores trying to please their clients but it’s not. It’s really, really, _really_ not.

“So good,” chokes out Grantaire suddenly, except it’s not sudden, it’s more like Enjolras has no idea how much time as passed. “Enjolras. I need to–”

“Wha– _oh_ ,” gasps Enjolras, jerking forward as hot liquid fills his arse and Grantaire’s thrusts falter. “Grantaire - I – you – _did you –_?”

“I told you you’d be the death of me,” says Grantaire, slumping forward onto Enjolras with a groan, his shoulders heaving. “Death. Dead. I’m dead. So dead.”

Enjolras wraps his arms around Grantaire’s shoulders and clenches his arse muscles. Grantaire convulses in his arms. “Enjolras – _no_ , oh, oh fuck, Enjolras.”

It’s Enjolras’s turn to stroke Grantaire’s hair, smoothing it back from his face and running his fingers over the the nape of Grantaire’s neck. “I cannot believe you wished to wait,” says Enjolras, staring up at the ceiling and still feeling like he has vibrated slightly out of his body.

Grantaire laughs, and it turns into moaning for the two of them because Grantaire is still inside of Enjolras. “Oh, fuck, fuck,” gasps Grantaire as he pulls out and collapses on the table next to Enjolras. Enjolras feebly twitches his fingers against Grantaire’s arm in response.

They stay like that for a while, at least until Enjolras’s body stops twitching with little aftershocks and his leg is starting to cramp. “We have a show in scarcely an hour,” says Enjolras, because he can see the clock upside-down from where he is sprawled.

Grantaire mashes his face into the table. “I wish to do nothing but sleep and kiss you for perhaps the next three hours. And perhaps fondle you some more.”

“I am quite certain I cannot walk yet,” says Enjolras, curious because it’s a new feeling for him, feeling fucked out and satisfied and feeling his arsehole pull every time he moves even a little bit.

There’s a knock on the door. “Are you two quite finished?” asks Combeferre, and Enjolras passes a hand over his face in embarrassment. “I hope you realise that I share this room with you, Enjolras.”

Grantaire is shaking with silent laughter.

“Erm,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire helps him up. Enjolras’s legs still refuse to work entirely, his arse aches magnificently and he feels somewhat... squishy on the inside but he looks over at Grantaire, who can’t keep a pleased grin off his face, and he cannot bring himself to care.

“I have the worst timing, I am sorry,” says Grantaire, giving Enjolras a quick kiss to the temple. “But I – I couldn’t wait. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“Don’t apologise,” says Enjolras. “I think I ought to get used to being ravaged before a performance. I suspect it will happen often.”

Grantaire pinks as he daubs a face cloth with water from his flask and gently wipes Enjolras off. “I – you – oh, you think so?”

Enjolras nods thoughtfully. “Before performances... after performances... in my rooms, in your rooms... at night... in the morning... I could go on?”

Grantaire chuckles, and presses his forehead to Enjolras’s shoulder, holding him desperately tight. “The death of me,” he murmurs again.

Startled by the moment of sudden emotion, Enjolras can only curl his arms around Grantaire and hold him back. “We have to get dressed,” Enjolras says, reminding him gently of Combeferre, waiting patiently outside.

“Yes, yes, naturally,” says Grantaire, pulling himself together. They dress themselves with little decorum, putting their professional demeanours back on layer by layer. Grantaire snorts when he finds Enjolras’s teeth imprint on his collarbone, and purposefully leaves his tunic untied, making Enjolras huff, unable to bring himself to be embarrassed.

Grantaire opens the door to the room and they can see Combeferre leaning on the wall beside it, pretending very hard not to be able to hear every word they say. Grantaire is halfway out of the door before he pauses, turns and flies back to Enjolras’s side, pressing his lips feverishly to first Enjolras’s lips and then his ear, and whispering:

“When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,  
I all alone beweep my outcast state,   
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,   
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,   
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,   
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,  
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,   
With what I most enjoy contented least;   
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,   
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,   
Like to the lark at break of day arising  
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;   
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings  
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”  

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, the Shakespeare play they're doing is basically Twelfth Night, with a few tweaks (like sword fights...), because it's my favourite :D
> 
> Before anyone lambasts me for making them use lamp oil as lube, I’m going to link [this thread](http://nanowrimo.org/forums/erotic-fiction/threads/134664).
> 
> Come yell at me on [tumblr](http://defractum.tumblr.com)!


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